17. Cathy
17
CATHY
T he grand ballroom stretches before me, a space drenched in shadows and splashes of dark crimson, opulent yet somber. Heavy chandeliers cast a dim glow over the crowd, their lights flickering like dying stars, illuminating and concealing the faces around me.
Every inch of this room feels carefully crafted to instill a sense of awe and dread—a reflection of Ivan himself.
My husband’s hand rests possessively on my waist as we step into the room, guiding me forward with a calm authority that sends a shiver through me.
The guests’ eyes shift in our direction, a ripple of murmurs echoing through the ballroom, and I can feel their stares—sharp, assessing, as if they’re trying to piece me apart. A mix of curiosity and something darker lingers in their gazes, an edge of unease that makes my skin prickle.
And yet, I feel a strange surge of power as I move beside Ivan. I’m no longer just Cathy—I’m his wife, linked to him in ways I’m still struggling to comprehend.
The weight of that reality presses down on me, thrilling and terrifying all at once. Ivan’s presence at my side is a silent command, his grip firm, unyielding, and I find myself standing taller, feeling both small and untouchable in this twisted world of his.
Without a word, he leads me onto the dance floor. His hand never leaves my waist, holding me close as he guides me into the rhythm of the music.
His movements are controlled, fluid, and I follow, instinctively matching his steps, his silent strength guiding my every motion. His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unwavering, drawing me into a private world within this dark, crowded room.
In his eyes, I see both challenge and promise, a fierce possessiveness that makes my heart race.
The music surrounds us, a haunting melody that seems to amplify the shadows, casting us as two figures bound in a silent ritual. As we move together, the world around us fades, the guests, the whispers, even the music itself all slipping into the background. It’s just us—just Ivan’s hand on my waist, his gaze piercing through me, his presence overpowering, consuming.
Then, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low, commanding murmur that sends a shiver through me. “Remember, Cathy,” he whispers, his tone like dark velvet, smooth and dangerous.
“You belong to me now. I’ll protect you, but you’ll obey my rules.” The words settle over me, a reminder of the chains I now wear, yet there’s a strange thrill woven through his tone, a sense of safety wrapped in dominance.
As the dance ends, his grip loosens, and he gives me a slight nod before stepping away to speak with his men. I’m left standing alone for a moment, catching my breath, when Nik approaches. He inclines his head slightly in greeting, a subtle but genuine smile forming on his lips.
“You’ve changed him,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “He’s different with you.”
I blink, surprised at his words. “Different?” I echo, unsure what he means. I can’t imagine Ivan as anything other than the intense, controlling figure I’ve seen.
Nik nods, his gaze flicking to where Ivan stands, his stance commanding as he speaks to a few high-ranking Bratva members.
“I’ve known him a long time,” he continues, “and I’ve never seen him as protective of anyone as he is with you. He may try to hide it, but it’s clear to those of us who know him. You bring out something softer in him. Like how he was with Elena.”
A strange warmth spreads through me at his words, though I quickly tamp it down, reminding myself of Ivan’s coldness, his unwavering control. “That’s hard to believe,” I say, forcing a small laugh. “He’s not exactly known for his warmth.”
Nik chuckles. “True, but he’s also not known for tolerating anyone, yet he’s chosen you as his wife. That says more than any words could.” He pauses, watching me with an appraising look. “Ivan sees something in you worth protecting. Unlike that piece of shit you were with before.”
The comment catches me off guard, stirring memories of Jimmy, my ex-fiancé, and the deception and darkness he hid behind his charm. “Jimmy seemed good, at first. Decent, even. But he wasn’t. And Ivan seemed the opposite. Cold, even ruthless.” I let out a sigh. “Is there really a chance he’s got a heart underneath it all?”
Nik looks thoughtful for a moment. “To quote my favorite author, If Ivan were evil, he would look fairer and feel fouler.”
He glances over at Ivan, who is dominating his conversations, his posture commanding as others stand in line to seek his favor or approval. “Ivan looks like a villain, but there’s more to him than meets the eye. You don’t get to his position without learning how to handle people with more than just fear.”
“Tell that to the guy he slapped.”
“A representative of the Bianchi family. A gesture of peace. They took the invitation as weakness. Argued with one of our men. Any other day, his throat would have been slit.”
I follow his gaze to Ivan, taking in the way he speaks with authority, the way others shrink back, hanging on his every word. He holds their fear and respect in equal measure, making it clear that anyone who crosses him will face consequences. It’s both thrilling and unnerving to think that he’s extending that protection to me.
Nik’s voice pulls me back. “Those men respect him, but they fear him just as much. And now, because of his protectiveness over you, they fear you too.”
I look at him, surprised. “Me?”
He nods. “They know that even the slightest insult toward you could mean their end. Ivan would ensure it. He’s made that very clear.”
A shiver runs through me, a mix of fear and something else—a strange thrill at the realization of how far Ivan would go for me. The weight of my position here sinks in, the knowledge that I’m not just standing beside Ivan as his wife but as someone who commands the respect, and fear, of those around me. It’s a dark kind of power, and while part of me recoils from it, another part can’t deny the allure.
Nik glances around, noting the subtle glances from other Bratva members as they eye me with a mix of wariness and awe. “In this world,” he says quietly, “loyalty and fear are inseparable. To be under Ivan’s protection is both a privilege and a risk. He would do anything for his family.”
The mention of family brings a question to my lips. “Were you friends with Elena?” I ask before I can stop myself.
It’s clear I’ve brought up a painful memory. He winces as if I’ve punched him. “This is not the day to speak of such things. Our guests wish to greet you.” He ducks away as several guests crowd around me.
“Mrs. Morosov,” a short balding man greets me, inclining his head. His voice is rough, laced with an thick Russian accent, and he avoids direct eye contact, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. “Congratulations. You bring honor and beauty to our boss’s life.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice steady though my insides are swirling. He gives me a slight bow and steps back, a silent acknowledgment of my position. I catch myself standing taller, his subordination casting away the shadows of my past.
Another man steps forward, this one with a scar running down his cheek, his eyes wary. “It is an honor to meet you, Mrs. Morosov,” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice, almost too subtle to notice, but I catch it. “If there’s ever anything you need… anything I can do to make you feel at home, you only need ask.”
I nod, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I’ll remember that,” I reply, allowing a faint smile, feeling the power in my words, the way they affect him.
His shoulders seem to tense as if bracing for something, and I sense he’s waiting for Ivan’s approval of this exchange, as if one wrong move might cost him everything.
Behind him, I catch Nik’s eye, a slight nod from him reaffirming the control I have, the power Ivan’s name bestows on me here. The realization unfurls slowly, thrillingly, leaving me steady, where I used to feel small.
A third man, younger and looking almost out of place among these hardened criminals, steps up. He stammers slightly, glancing over his shoulder as if he’s making sure Ivan isn’t listening.
“Mrs. Morosov, um… welcome,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “We’ll do our best to make you comfortable here. I’m so sorry for the argument during the vows. Please tell your husband I only wished to silence that bastard from the Bianchi pricks.”
The cautious reverence in his voice—the hint of fear that Ivan might witness any disrespect—fills me with something deeper than satisfaction. It’s vindicating. Jimmy had spent years making me feel invisible, worthless, a burden.
Now, these men are nervous, deferential, showing respect for me because Ivan has commanded it. The thought strikes me like a bolt: Jimmy would never believe this if he saw it.
The man lingers a moment, clearly unsure if he’s met my approval. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly lowers his head, muttering, “It’s truly an honor, ma’am.”
“It’s Mrs. Morosov,” I correct him, feeling a strange satisfaction as the words leave my mouth.
He nods quickly, swallowing. “Yes, of course. Mrs. Morosov.” He glances at Ivan, whose gaze is locked on him like a hawk, and the young man quickly steps back, practically retreating into the crowd as Ivan appears from nowhere, taking my hand in his.
“This way,” Ivan says. “The traditions must be upheld.”